


Humor Me and Tell Me Lies

by anodyneer



Category: White Collar
Genre: Conspiracy, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Sickfic, Trust, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 07:57:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anodyneer/pseuds/anodyneer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Peter's very ill with the flu, and Elizabeth and Neal can't be there to take care of him, El sets him up with a most unlikely caretaker - Mozzie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Humor Me and Tell Me Lies

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for two different [ White Collar HC ComFest 2013](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/) prompts - [this one](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/133333.html?thread=1068501#t1068501) by saphirablue and [this one](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/133333.html?thread=1113045#t1113045) by theatregirl7299 (a carry-over from FeverFest)! Title is from "Run-Around" by Blues Traveler.
> 
> I wrote a separate LJ entry ([link](http://anodyneer.livejournal.com/3445.html)) with extensive author's notes/commentary because there are so many things to explain in this fic. If you just want the basics, though, here's a link to the O. Henry story, ["Hearts and Hands,"](http://www.online-literature.com/yeats/1019/) and [this](http://www.sovietarmystuff.com/Product_185_OZK_Soviet_Russian_Army_Chemical_NBC_Hazmat_Protection_Suit.html) is the creepy surplus hazmat suit.
> 
> I now have two pieces of awesome cover art for this fic, courtesy of leesa_perrie (top) and aragarna (bottom), who made these for me for Fandom Stocking 2013. Thank you both so much!

* * *

Peter Burke peered down at the thermometer in his mouth, his eyes nearly crossed, trying to read the numbers on the digital display. He was having a hard enough time just keeping his eyes open, and his vision kept blurring, making it impossible to tell what the device was going to reveal about him to his wife.

Elizabeth was just coming back into the living room when the thermometer beeped, and he never did get a clear look at it before she took it. “Oh, honey.” She ran a cool hand up over his forehead and through his hair, almost as if she didn’t believe his fever could be that high. “102.3. I don’t know about this. I should really stay here with you.”

Peter shook his head, trying to ignore the fact that the room briefly tilted as a result. “I’ll - ” The raspy whisper wasn’t very convincing. He cleared his raw throat as gently as he could and tried again. “I’ll be fine.”

“Peter, you’re not fine. You have the flu.” He waited for the line he’d been hearing for the past two days – that he should have gotten a flu shot when she did instead of putting it off – but she took pity on him and just let the implication hang in the air with whatever germs he’d coughed up in the last hour.

The truth was, Peter could count on one hand the number of times he’d previously felt this ill in his life. He’d had the flu before but couldn’t remember it being this horrible. Though he’d been showing symptoms for the past few days, he’d toughed it out and gone to work, knowing that the sting for the Martel mortgage fraud case needed to be precisely set up and executed. He’d made it through the setup part, but the flu had finally gotten the better of him, just in time to keep him sidelined for the sting itself.

He’d briefly considered trying to cowboy up and go in to work, but it had been pretty clear even the night before that he wasn’t going to be able to pull it off. Nearly every part of his body felt like it had been beaten with a blacksmith hammer, his head throbbed, swallowing was pure torture, and he was pretty sure he’d lost at least a small piece of lung during a late evening coughing fit. Add to that the high fever that was short-circuiting his body’s internal thermostat, and even Peter couldn’t muscle his way through this one.

Just getting down the stairs and bundling up on the sofa had exhausted him, but they didn’t have a TV in the bedroom, and he’d also been trying to convince Elizabeth that she didn’t have to stay home from work. She was supposed to host an event for a very important and wealthy client, and the resulting word-of-mouth business would be well worth it.

He’d very reluctantly called in sick to work, putting Diana in charge of the Martel sting. There was no possible way it could be rescheduled, and he had faith that his team could handle it. Neal – or Nick Halden – had gained Martel’s trust, convincing the would-be thief that he could help him walk away from a fraudulent mortgage closing with several hundred thousand dollars. With their thorough planning, and with Neal on the inside, the sting would go off without a hitch. He hoped.

El sat down beside him on the sofa, lightly massaging his scalp with her fingertips. He sighed and closed his eyes, leaning into her hand. Whatever strain of the flu he had must have been covered by the vaccine, as neither El nor anyone else at the office had shown symptoms. He was happy for that small favor; it meant she could get close to him without either of them having to worry quite as much.

“I just don’t know,” she said, more to herself than to him. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you this sick.”

Peter swallowed, cringing at the pain in his throat, and opened his eyes, trying to focus on hers. “Hon, I’ll be alright. I promise. You go do your…thing.” He’d already forgotten the event that was going to take her away from him all day.

“Yeah, normally I’d let Yvonne take care of this one, but Alaric Carter requested me by name. We did his niece’s wedding reception, remember?” Peter didn’t remember just at that moment, but he nodded and tried to smile, grateful that the room didn’t go off-kilter this time. “Well, she recommended me to him, and they made it pretty clear if I could handle this gala personally, they’d send all sorts of business our way. That’s great, but you come first. I wonder if I could call him and explain?”

“El, I really think you should go.” Peter’s voice was barely audible, but he knew how much this event meant to Elizabeth and her business, and he was sure he’d be fine by himself for several hours. He tried to sound convincing. “Alaric Carter’s gala is a big deal. Trust me, if Neal wasn’t going to be in the middle of the Martel sting today, he’d be trying to find a way to crash the event without you seeing him.”

That got a smile out of El, and she kissed him on the forehead. “Well, if you’re sure…”

“I am.”

“Okay, but please call or text if you need me. I put everything here on the table.” She ticked things off on her fingers. “Your phone, a glass of water, cough syrup and Tylenol, tissues, lozenges, the remote, and today’s crossword. I’m going to drop Satchmo off with the Bermans so you don’t have to worry about taking him out.” She looked thoughtful for a moment before finally nodding to herself. “I think that’s it. Do you need anything else?”

“A flu shot?” He barely managed to stifle a cough that threatened to drive the point home.

“You’re getting one as soon as you’re feeling well enough.” She smiled, leaning down to kiss the corners of his mouth. “The sarcasm is a good sign. Remember, let me know if you need anything; Carter will just have to deal with it. Maybe I’ll send someone by later to check on you.” The last statement was spoken more to herself than to him

He tried to ask who she’d send, but his voice decided not to cooperate. Elizabeth was distracted by getting her things together and didn’t notice. She asked once more if he was sure she should go, and when he nodded and smiled, she gave him a quick goodbye kiss and breezed out the door with her bag and the dog.

Now that he was finally able to let his guard down, Peter realized just how horrible he felt. El had already given him some Tylenol, and he didn’t feel up to watching anything or doing the crossword. He’d brought his own pillow and the comforter with him when he came downstairs that morning, and he snuggled into both, achy and exhausted. Within minutes, he’d drifted off to sleep.

\-------------------

“Suit? Hello?”

The voice cut through Peter’s feverish sleep, sounding faraway – and oddly distorted. He ignored it and tried to fall back into the darkness, where it was warm and comfortable and free of pain.

“Oh, God, you’re dead. You’re dead, and…this is a trap.”

It was getting harder for Peter to evade the words chiseling away at his aching head. He thought he recognized the voice, but something about it was very wrong. He briefly entertained the idea of looking to see what was going on, but moving meant pain, so he stayed perfectly still.

“They’re here, aren’t they? Come out, G-Men! What have you done to him? Infected him with some new level four filovirus manufactured by the military industrial complex? You won’t get away with this! I have contacts at Fort Detrick!”

The muffled voice now sounded panicked, and Peter’s fuzzy brain began to realize that something might actually be wrong. He took as deep a breath as he could manage, intending to sigh, but it came out as a guttural groan.

There was a gasp from whoever had been ranting, and then blissful silence. Every single muscle in Peter’s body felt like it had been pushed far beyond its limit, but he forced himself to reach up and pull the comforter away from his eyes.

“Suit?” A whisper, tinny-sounding and apprehensive.

Peter opened one eye, and when it didn’t result in sudden death, he decided to open the other. He couldn’t make out anything at first, but after blinking a few times to clear his vision, he saw something that shocked the hell out of him.

_An alien?!_

A figure loomed over him, a blob of dingy seafoam green with the most hideous features he’d ever seen. It had an elongated gray face and terrifying circular eyes, black and devoid of life.

In spite of his condition, Peter sat bolt upright on the sofa, scrambling to push himself away from the strange creature standing before him.

“Wait, Suit, it’s just me!”

All of Peter’s muscles were screaming in protest, and his pulse pounded so loudly in his ears that it almost drowned out the figure’s altered voice. Adrenaline had taken over, and as the thing reached out to him, he lashed out at it, slapping at the rubbery flesh. His eyes darted around the room, searching for the closest object he could use as a weapon.

“Ow!” It retreated and started pulling at its head. “Peter!”

The sound of his own first name jarred him out of his panicked state, and Peter stopped thrashing. He squinted at the figure, his fevered mind trying to make sense of what was happening while his lungs raked in air in ragged, painful gasps.

“Peter.” Quieter this time, as though it was afraid of frightening him again. The thing struggled with its gray head, pulling it up and away from the green body to reveal a familiar round – and human – face. As Peter tried to make sense of this new development, the other man reached into the rubbery body and pulled something out, which he then put on his face to complete the picture.

“It’s me. Peter, it’s Moz.” He held his latex-clad hands up and away from his body, his eyes impossibly wide behind his glasses. “Please don’t hurt me. I’m not armed. And I’m a passive resister.”

As Peter fought to catch his breath, the adrenaline rush started wearing off, and the room began to spin. He closed his eyes tightly against the resulting wave of nausea, but it had little effect. Mozzie, apparently recognizing the look on his face, reached for the nearest wastebasket. He got it in front of Peter just in time, then backed away nervously as Peter started retching.

“Hold on, she said you weren’t doing that. Seriously? I did _not_ sign up for this.”

Having gotten rid of what little was in his stomach, Peter summoned the last bits of his willpower to fight the dry heaves that threatened, knowing the pain that would come with them. He closed his eyes again and fell back against the arm of the sofa, his pulse trip-hammering in his head. The last thing he heard before passing out was a faint mumble about government-engineered plagues.

\-------------------

The next time Peter emerged into awareness, it was only because something cold and rough was licking his face. _Satchmo_? He vaguely remembered El taking the dog with her that morning, and it startled him to think enough time might have passed for them to have returned. He wanted to bring his hands up to brush at his face, but he wasn’t sure he had the energy.

“Stop. Licking. Me.” He didn’t recognize his own voice, raspy and thin.

The movement on his face stopped. “It speaks.” Again, the cool touch grazed over his skin. “Open your eyes, Suit. And don’t ever say anything that hideous to me again.”

Peter reluctantly did as he was told, only to see Mozzie standing over him, gently mopping his face with a damp washcloth. The fever must have gotten so high that he was hallucinating. Frowning, he closed his eyes, then opened them again. The view didn’t change.

“What?” Peter swallowed against the pressure in his throat. “You?”

“Your gratitude is overwhelming.” Moz folded the washcloth and draped it over Peter’s forehead. Instead of the strange green garb he’d been wearing earlier, he was dressed in slightly rumpled gray pants and a light blue button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. “Now that you’re awake, you should really drink something. You’re probably dehydrated.”

Though Peter wouldn’t normally take orders from Mozzie, his parched throat convinced him that it was the best idea he’d heard all day, and he nodded weakly. Moz held the glass up to Peter’s mouth and tilted it carefully, his tongue curling on his bottom lip as he concentrated on not spilling it.

“Take small sips. I don’t want to meet your friend Ralph York again.”

Peter sipped at the water, making sure each swallow went down and settled in his stomach before taking another. It was slow going, but he was able to finish a quarter of the glass before pulling back, his lips pressing into a thin line. The water was cold and refreshing, and the surprise must have registered on his face.

“I refilled it. The old glass was sitting there for hours. Do you have any idea how much dust, hair, and bacteria can fall into a single glass of water during that time?” He put the glass back on the table.

Peter sighed and pushed himself up into the corner between the arm and back of the sofa, pulling the comforter tighter around him and draping the washcloth around the back of his neck. He noticed the trash can, cleaned and lined with a new bag, sitting within easy reach. Trying to ignore the unfamiliar stab of humility, he turned his attention to Mozzie. “What – what are you doing here?”

“I needed some quick cash and remembered your Baccarat vase. I didn’t expect you to be home.” When Peter’s eyes went wide, Moz cracked a smug smile. “I jest, of course. Mrs. Suit sent me.” He sat on the chair closest to Peter’s end of the sofa. “I owe her a few favors.” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “I may owe you one or two as well, but if interrogated, I’ll deny everything. I do have a reputation to maintain.”

Peter just stared, still not sure what to make of the situation. He couldn’t remember Mozzie ever speaking to him so casually, but his gut told him that Neal’s vertically-challenged friend didn’t have an ulterior motive.

“Hmm.” He paused to cough into the crook of his arm, then ran a shaking hand through his hair, which was sticking out in various directions. “You talked to El?”

“I did. She was very worried about you.” He took a sip of wine from a glass Peter hadn’t noticed. When Peter eyed it warily, Moz rolled his own eyes. “I brought it. It’s Neal’s. You’re not allowed to have any. No beer either, per Elizabeth. I was told you can only have water, ginger ale, or tea with lemon and honey. I recommend option three; I’m quite the artisan when it comes to making medicinal teas.”

Peter grunted and leaned his head back against the sofa. As he glanced around the room to see what else may have changed since Moz’ arrival, he noticed something large and green hanging over the stairway railing. A smaller gray blob sat on the newel cap. He thought he’d seen these things before but couldn’t quite place them.

“What _is_ that?”

Moz followed his finger. “Oh, that’s my Russian military surplus hazmat suit and gas mask.”

“Of course it is.” Even as unwell as Peter felt, he still couldn’t resist teasing Mozzie about his penchant for foreign military castoffs. “I should have known.”

Moz gave him an exaggerated shrug. “What? I had to make sure they didn’t break in and inject you with a level four biological agent after Mrs. Suit left. You do work for the federal government; your body is theirs to experiment with as they see fit.” He took another sip of wine. “Once I saw you weren’t bleeding out, I figured it was safe enough. I actually got my vaccinations in a timely manner.” He lifted his chin and looked down his nose at Peter. “Unlike some people.”

Peter tried to chuckle, but it turned into another cough that resonated deep in his head. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “You get the flu shot? Something that’s regulated by the FDA is coursing through your veins as we speak?”

Mozzie’s reply was dripping with disdain. “I’ve researched it thoroughly and decided that I’d rather risk the vaccine than become part of a global pandemic. I once had a particularly traumatic bout with the flu, Suit. I don’t ever want to go through anything like that again.”

“I know the feeling.” A sudden case of the chills snuck up on Peter, making his teeth chatter so hard he thought they might crack. The muscles in his ribs were screaming bloody murder, a sound that wanted to fight its way up and out of his mouth. He settled for a long, ragged groan instead.

When he finally opened his eyes, Mozzie was watching him with a curious mixture of anxiety and concern. The former was normal; the latter caught Peter completely off-guard. When Moz realized he was being observed, he took a big gulp of wine, hiding behind the glass. 

“How much of that are you going to drink?” It wasn’t supposed to sound accusatory, but the other man appeared to be irritated by the comment. He tapped his ring finger against the glass, one of his many rings clinking a staccato rhythm that bored into Peter’s aching head. Just when he’d had enough, the tapping stopped as abruptly as it started, and Moz put the glass on the table. 

“I promised Elizabeth that I’d only have one glass,” he admitted.

“Starting a little early?” Again, his tone was more harsh than he’d intended, and he expected Mozzie’s irritation to increase. Instead, he just shrugged.

“Yeah, well when I woke up this morning, I didn’t know that your wife was going to call me and make my universe divide by zero.”

Peter smiled at the statement. 

“Besides,” Moz continued as he put the glass back on the table. “‘Wine is the most healthful and most hygienic of beverages.’”

“Hmm.” Peter’s smile widened; he was familiar with the quote. “Pasteur?”

“The very same. I’m impressed, Suit.” He stood and got Peter’s water glass from the table. “Speaking of drinking, you really should be doing more of that.” He started to hold the glass up to Peter’s lips again, but Peter shook his head and reached for it instead.

“I think I can manage this time.” He grasped the glass in both hands and took a few careful sips. It was still cool and felt heavenly to his arid throat.

“If your stomach decides not to revolt against that, Elizabeth said she left some chicken soup for you, and I brought some elderberry tea.”

Peter nodded before slowly drinking much of what was left in the glass. “My stomach actually doesn’t feel that bad,” he said as he handed it back to Moz. “The room was spinning earlier – _really_ spinning. It’s not now.” His hands were damp from the condensation on the water glass, and he ran them down over his jaw, rubbing absently at the stubble there. “I’m, uh, sorry about that, by the way.”

Mozzie tried to paste on an indifferent expression, but Peter was sure he saw something resembling compassion in the other man’s blue eyes. “Yeah, well contrary to what they brainwash you with at Quantico, you’re not invincible, you know.”

Peter didn’t expect the statement to hit him in the gut the way it did. The truth was, he was well aware that he wasn’t invincible. Each time he walked out the door, there was a possibility that he may not make it back home. It was never something he thought about for long, because he knew it could become a deadly distraction, causing him to second-guess himself in the field. Still, it remained in the back of his mind, a small part of his conscience that helped him to see things others didn’t and kept him out of trouble most of the time. 

Having it brought to the forefront without warning was a bit of a shock to his battered system, and it overwhelmed him. He didn’t know if it was that or the fever, but he suddenly felt overheated and claustrophobic. He shrugged out from under the comforter and pulled the washcloth from his neck, using it to wipe his face before putting it on the table behind the sofa. When he looked up at Mozzie, the other man was staring back at him, looking genuinely apologetic.

“I’m sorry, Peter. That was uncalled for.” The continued eye contact, especially in a such an awkward situation, was uncharacteristic. Peter wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen Mozzie looking more sincere than he did in that moment.

“Thank you…but it’s not something I haven’t thought before.” Peter slipped his sweatshirt off and draped it over the back of the sofa. As he looked back over at Moz, he noticed a canvas bag on the floor next to the chair. “What’s in the bag?”

Mozzie let out a long breath, relieved that Peter had been so graciously quick to change the subject. Never one to let a good opportunity escape, he put on his most solemn expression. “The Baccarat vase, a Gorham flatware set, a sextant, the contents of all of your hard drives copied to flash drives, an autographed baseball, several pieces of gold jewelry, and a Puzzlethon trophy – I’m keeping that for myself.”

Peter raised his eyebrows and gave Moz a knowing look. “Oh really?”

“I’ve always wanted one of those, and you have three others, so you shouldn’t miss that one. Hey, it’s not my fault you sleep like a log when you’re sick.” He took off his glasses and polished them with his shirttail, trying to keep a straight face. “Elizabeth’s right, by the way. You do talk in your sleep.” He put the glasses back on, not quite making eye contact with Peter.

“Hear anything interesting?” Peter pulled the front of his t-shirt out away from his body, grabbed the washcloth, and ran it up under the shirt. It did little to cool him down, but he was able to wipe away some of the grimy feeling that came with being as sick as he was.

“You told Elizabeth to never, _ever_ take the computer to Pollitt’s to get it fixed because the place is crawling with feds. There was something about re-instating COINTELPRO – I really hope that one’s not true, for my own sake. You said that you want to trust Halden, but Haversham thinks his family had ties to George Sevier. I don’t think that at all, by the way.” He paused for a moment, then held up a finger. “Oh, and I thought you were going to give me the phone number for the switchboard at Site R, but then you woke up.”

Peter laughed, a harsh sound that turned into yet another coughing fit. When it subsided, he was alarmingly short of breath. One hand was pressed tightly to his chest, while the other still grasped the washcloth. He opened his eyes to find Moz standing near the other end of the sofa, watching him anxiously. Peter shook his head and motioned for him to sit back down.

Mozzie frowned. “You should at least take some cough syrup, and maybe a cup of elderberry tea.”

Peter nodded slowly, trying to concentrate on regulating his breathing. He felt lightheaded, but at least the room hadn’t started spinning again. He watched, feeling somewhat detached, as Mozzie poured some of the cough syrup into the plastic dosage cup.

“Wait, this says every twelve hours. Did you take some today?” When Peter shook his head and pointed a trembling finger at the bottle of Tylenol, Moz looked at him doubtfully. “You’re sure?”

“Positive. Yesterday.” Peter whispered. Satisfied, Mozzie held the cup to Peter’s lips, taking as much care as he had with the water. When the orange-flavored syrup was gone, he took the washcloth and cup to the kitchen without another word.

Peter leaned his head back and closed his eyes again as his breathing continued to even out. He could hear Mozzie running water and busying himself with something in the kitchen, but he didn’t have the energy to worry about what might be going on. Though the man’s gentleness and competence had thrown him for a loop, it also helped inspire Peter to trust him for the time being.

Peter must have dozed off, as he awoke with a start when a hand fell on his shoulder. “Your tea’s ready. I promise that it’s safe, and it should help with some of your symptoms.”

“Hmm?”

“Elderberry tea, Peter.” The use of his first name again brought Peter around, and he leaned forward, cautiously grasping the cup in both hands. “This is my own blend. I add a few things to help improve the flavor, but if it still offends your unrefined palate, I suppose I could further defile it with some more honey.” He crossed his arms and waited.

Peter took a tentative sip of the tea, only to find that it was actually better than he’d expected. He glanced up at Mozzie and nodded before taking a larger sip. This time, he held it in his mouth, savoring the warmth before finally swallowing and letting it burn a gratifying trail down his throat. He closed his eyes and held the cup under his nose, inhaling the soothing steam into his sinuses. Though he knew it was due to the warmth more than the tea itself, he found himself momentarily feeling better than he had in days, and a tiny part of him wanted to break down and cry.

When he opened his eyes, Moz was once again sitting in the chair with a satisfied grin on his face. He reached down for the canvas bag and pulled it up onto his lap, then took a small notebook from a pocket on the side. As Peter watched, the other man leaned over and grabbed the bottle of cough syrup from the table, then uncapped a fountain pen and started scratching away at a page in the book. After a moment, he returned the bottle to the table and the notebook and pen to his bag.

“What are you doing?” Peter asked, still sipping and savoring the tea.

“Writing down the date, time, manufacturer, expiration date, lot number, and dosage, of course.” Mozzie rolled his eyes. He opened the main compartment of the bag. “The contents of the bag, Suit, so that I won’t be searched before I leave.” Reaching inside, he pulled out a small wooden box, unlatched it, and started taking tiny glass bottles from it, one after the other. “Elderberry extract, Echinacea tincture, local honey, and a few other things that shall remain unnamed. Nothing illegal or toxic, and nothing that I haven’t put into my own body.”

It took Peter a moment to notice when Moz stopped talking. He’d gotten lost in the cup of tea and wondered very briefly if it had been spiked with brandy before deciding it was just the fact that the warmth was making him feel more human – and that the cough syrup was starting to kick in. He nodded for Mozzie to continue.

“Since everyone needs a toy, I brought a Chung Toi.” He smiled at his own pun as he pulled a board game from the bag and placed it on the table. “It’s basically tic-tac-toe for intelligent people.” The comment left Peter feeling vaguely flattered, but before he had a chance to respond, Moz had moved on, pulling a DVD from the bag. “And for your viewing pleasure, _Black Box UFO Secrets_. I’m assuming you haven’t seen it.” When Peter shook his head, Mozzie looked almost giddy. “It’s a few years old, but the witnesses are pilots and astronauts, so I thought you might find them more credible…and therefore might be more willing to indulge me by watching it.”

Peter took a moment to consider. The title hinted that it could be full of the conspiracy theories that Mozzie so enjoyed, but at the same time, he knew he should watch it anyway. After all, not only was the man looking after him – in a room teeming with germs, no less – when he likely had better things to do, but he was doing a damn good job of it. The brow-mopping alone, as perplexing as it had been, was reason enough to compromise.

“Sure,” Peter said, an agreeable smile settling on his face. The other man’s reaction was worth putting up with the video. Moz looked like the most popular kid in school had just picked him first for a game of recess baseball. There was a strange combination of astonishment, reverence, and distrust on his face that Peter almost found heartbreaking.

“Seriously?” The wariness came through in his voice.

“Why not? _Scientia est lux lucis_. Just don’t bug my DVD player.”

Mozzie’s jaw nearly came unhinged at the Latin phrase, and he stared at Peter as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. Peter just nodded and motioned for him to get on with it, and Mozzie stood quickly to get the DVD ready. As he put the canvas bag down beside the chair again, Peter noticed another shape in it.

“What else is in the bag?”

Moz returned to the chair, grabbing the remote from the table on his way by. “Even when you’re sick, you don’t miss much, Suit. I respect that about you. ‘It's not what you look at that matters, it's what you see.’”

“Thoreau,” Peter said with a smile, absently running his fingers over his forehead.

“Indeed – and just for that, you get to _see_ what else is in the bag.” He reached down into it and pulled out a thick, antique-looking hardcover book. The dark red cover was cracked and timeworn in places, and the edges of the pages had turned a mellow shade of light brown through decades of age and use.

“This,” he said, holding it up, “is something I used to read at the orphanage when I was sick. It’s _The Complete Works of O. Henry_ , 1927 first edition. Mr. Jeffries gave it to me. He knew I was the only one who would appreciate it, obviously.” His voice softened, and he went somewhere else in his mind for a moment. “When I was too sick to read on my own, Mr. Jeffries would read some of the stories to me while the other kids were at school. Sometimes, if I felt especially miserable, I’d close my eyes and listen to his voice, and I’d pretend I was part of a family and it was my dad reading to me.”

The room grew quiet as Moz struggled with the memory, lips pressed together in a peculiar half-smile. He ran his fingertips over the well-worn emblem embossed on the book’s cover, and Peter imagined that the boy at the group home must have done the very same thing all those years ago.

Abruptly, Mozzie placed the book on the table and scrutinized the remote. “But enough about me.” Without looking at Peter, he turned on the TV and started the DVD.

Peter politely turned his attention from Mozzie to the television and tried to concentrate on the documentary. He’d finished his tea, and the cough syrup was giving his throat and lungs a rest, but he still felt unbearably feverish. The clock on the DVD player told him that he was still an hour away from being able to take another dose of Tylenol, so he tried to settle in, hoping the show would help the time pass more quickly. His chills were returning, and he pulled the comforter back over his body.

“I watched game shows when I was home sick from school.” He wasn’t even sure why he said it, but it seemed fitting. “ _The Price is Right_ , _Match Game_ , _Password_ – whatever was on at the time. If I could stomach it, Mom would make some of her chicken noodle soup. Back then, I would’ve sworn to you that it could cure damn near anything.”

Peter realized he was rambling over the show’s narration and stopped, hoping he hadn’t seemed too disinterested. When he looked over at Mozzie, however, the other man was watching him closely.

“ _Match Game_ was great,” he said with a nod, his voice still soft and a bit wistful. “I was the only kid at the group home who understood the double entendres. I’m still not sure if that was a good or bad thing.” With a shrug and a satisfied smile, he turned his attention back to the documentary.

The moment was gone as quickly as it had arrived, but Peter wondered if maybe the conversation, from the book to the game shows, was more important than watching the video. In that brief exchange, Mozzie had found a connection – something from his childhood that he had in common with someone who had grown up in a nice suburban family.

Peter had no recollection of falling asleep, but a tentative hand on his shoulder brought him back to the present. “Peter, I’m sorry, but you should really wake up. It’s time for your Tylenol, and you certainly need it.”

He struggled to open his eyes and realized he was tangled in the comforter and was shivering. Mozzie stood over him, the thermometer in his hand. “Are you awake enough to keep this under your tongue?”

Peter gave him a consenting groan. He parted his lips and took the thermometer, struggling to rouse himself from his dazed state enough to keep it in place. He must have drifted yet again, as the beeping startled him into awareness.

“102.2” Mozzie sighed and reached for the bottle of pills on the table. “Not good at all, Suit. This isn’t a sporting event, you know. You’re not trying for a high score here.” He lifted what looked like a freshly-refilled glass of water from the table. “The room’s not spinning, is it? You’ll be able to keep these down?”

“Mmm. Yeah. Just. Need to wake up.” He managed to get the pills into his mouth, and with Mozzie’s help, washed them down. The cool water traced a restorative path down to his stomach, and he drank nearly half the glass before shaking his head and settling back against the sofa.

“Actually, resting is better for you anyway at this point.” Mozzie balanced himself on the arm of the sofa nearest Peter’s head and started wiping his face with another wet washcloth. A part of him wanted to protest, to swat at the other man’s hands and maintain what little dignity he had left. He felt terrible, though, and the ministrations were so soothing. As crazy as the whole situation was, he was grateful to have someone – anyone – there with him, helping him through it.

Peter felt like he should say something to convey his gratitude, but his brain was having a hard time putting words together. “Thank you. For today.”

Moz hummed an acknowledgement and shifted uncomfortably but said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Peter mumbled, closing his eyes. Mozzie used the opportunity to run the cloth over his eyelids.

“For?”

“Falling asleep. Missed the video. Didn’t mean to.”

The cloth stopped on his face as Mozzie pondered this piece of information. “I’ll be honest. I didn’t expect you to stay awake. If you do want to see it, though, I can leave it here.”

Peter wasn’t sure if he answered or not. As with the tea, the cool cloth moving over his face made him feel better than he had when he first woke up, but it also lulled him back into something bordering on sleep. It wasn’t long until he gave in and let it take him away again.

At some point, Peter drifted back to a semi-awake state, though he had no idea how much time had passed. There was a familiar voice droning away at the other end of the sofa. Mozzie. He cracked an eye open just enough to see his impromptu caretaker sitting down near his feet, reading aloud from the book he’d brought.

“‘Don’t you worry about them, miss,’ said the other man. ‘All marshals handcuff themselves to their prisoners to keep them from getting away. Mr. Easton knows his business.’”

Peter smiled to himself at the mention of marshals and prisoners, letting Mozzie’s gentle voice soothe him back to sleep.

\----------------------

The next time that Peter came around, he could tell immediately that there had been a change in him. He felt refreshed and well-rested, and as he started to stir, he realized that he wasn’t in as much pain as before. There was a gentle touch on his forehead, but not a cloth this time – the soft skin of his wife’s hand. He’d know it anywhere.

“Oh, there you are, honey. Peter?”

 _Elizabeth_. Peter forced his eyes open, and his field of vision was immediately filled with the gorgeous smiling face of his wife, sitting on the edge of the sofa in front of his lanky body.

“Welcome back!” She ran her hand from his forehead down to his cheek. “Your fever finally broke, I think. You’re so much cooler than you were when I left this morning, and your face isn’t flushed anymore.” There was a relief in her voice that reassured Peter, and he stretched tentatively, taking stock of how he was feeling.

Though he still ached, he felt quite a bit better than he had over the last few days. The chills had vanished, and he was sweating under the comforter, which he pushed away from his damp clothes. His throat was still scratchy, but he didn’t feel the urge to cough, and his chest wasn’t as tight.

“Hi, hon.” He smiled and reached for El, and she wrapped him up in her arms. She was warm and angelic and felt like heaven.

“Oh, you’re soaked. I think as soon as you feel up to it, we’re going to get you upstairs and give you a bath or shower.” She gave him a quick kiss before leaning back to give him a more thorough once-over.

“Hmm. Shower sounds perfect.” He rubbed his eyes and yawned, then looked around the room. Mozzie was nowhere to be seen, but the board game and book were still on the table. Satchmo was dozing on his bed by the fireplace. When he noticed Peter was awake and moving, he lifted his head and thumped his tail before returning to his nap.

“Moz is gone already, but Neal should be here soon. He texted you but said he figured you wouldn’t feel like checking your phone.”

Peter’s eyes went wide. He pushed himself up and tried to fumble for his phone as quickly as he dared, then groaned when his body reminded him that he still wasn’t anywhere near one hundred percent yet.

“Easy, babe.” She grasped his shoulders and gently forced him to sit back before handing the phone to him. “Everything went fine, they got Martel, nobody was hurt. You’ll have a few missed messages; I sent at least two, and Neal said he and Diana both sent you the good news.” 

As Peter skimmed through the texts, he became aware of two new messages from his body as well – one from his bladder and the other from his empty stomach. The latter picked that moment to grumble in protest, a sound El picked up on immediately.

“Moz said you weren’t feeling up to eating while he was here, but it sounds like you’re hungry now. Do you think you’ll be able to handle some chicken soup, maybe with a few crackers?”

Peter nodded and handed the phone back to her. “Yeah, I think I can do that. Bathroom first, then food.” As El put his phone on the table, he once again caught sight of the game and book. “Mozzie left those here?”

“He did. There’s some tea in the kitchen for you, too. He wants the book back, but he said you should keep the game and learn how to play it. He left a note for you in the book, I think.”

“Hmm. Did he say anything else?” Peter eyed her nervously.

“Well, it sounded like everything went better than I expected. I was hoping you wouldn’t give him a hard time.” When he raised his eyebrows and tried to stifle a smile, she laughed. “You know what I mean. You and Moz, together for hours?”

“Are you trying to say I don’t play well with others when I’m sick?”

“Oh, honey, let’s not even go there. Moz had nothing but good things to say, though. He said you slept most of the time, and that you took your medicine when he told you to. He even said you watched some show about UFOs with him. Really?”

“I…yeah, I tried. I think I ended up seeing more of the backs of my eyelids.” 

“Well, you probably made his whole day by agreeing to watch it in the first place.” She helped Peter move to sit beside her on the edge of the sofa and ran her hand across his broad shoulders. “Even when you’re this sick, you’re still the sweetest man I know. One of the many reasons I love you. I was a little worried that you might be uncomfortable with having him here while you were so out of it, but honestly, of the people who were available, he’s the one I trust the most. You probably think that’s crazy.” 

Peter planted a kiss high on her cheek. He debated with himself about whether or not he should respond to the comment before finally sighing and looking into her eyes. “Actually, once I got over the initial shock, it was kind of nice to have him here.”

“Really? You’re not delirious, are you?” she teased, running her index finger down his nose.

“No, I’m serious, El. Thank you.” He kissed her again, and she beamed, relieved that he appreciated Mozzie’s visit. “Now, if I don’t get upstairs soon, things could get a little embarrassing.”

Before she could reply, there was a knock at the door. “Oh, good, that’s Neal. We’ll probably need his help.” She got up to let him in.

Peter gave a resigned sigh and nodded, still not thrilled that he was so dependent on others, but knowing that she was right. He glanced at Satchmo, who was watching as El opened the door. “Now I know how you feel.”

\---------------------

With Neal and Elizabeth’s help, Peter was able to make the slow trek up the stairs to the bathroom, cursing the fact that they’d never found a way to add one downstairs. After giving his protesting bladder some relief, he took a shower, managing to stay standing for about half of it before relenting and sitting down in the tub for the rest.

Thanks to the shower, shave, and change of clothes, Peter was feeling halfway human by the time they helped him back downstairs. He still wasn’t quite steady enough to eat at the table, so El brought his soup into the living room, and he propped himself against his pillow. As he slowly made his way through half the bowl, Neal filled him in on the successful – and rather uneventful – sting. Afterward, Neal sat patiently through all of Peter’s usual questions before begging off, having promised Diana he’d return to the office to help wrap up the paperwork.

El took the rest of his soup back to the kitchen and started to fix herself something to eat, and Peter finally got a chance to pick up the book Moz had left on the table. He’d been shocked to see it there since he’d gotten the impression that it was one of the quirky man’s most prized possessions.

There was a folded piece of paper sticking out of the top near the back of the book, and Peter opened it to that page, leaving the book open on his lap as he read the note.

_Peter –_

_I hope this finds you feeling more like yourself. The apparition of delirium that inhabited your body today was as unnerving as it was intriguing. Someday, I might want to hear what it was like on your side of the spectral curtain._

_As you can see, I’ve left a few things behind. The tea is a gift, as is the game. One day soon, I’ll challenge you to a best of seven match – be ready._

_The book is on loan until you’ve had your fill of it. It is priceless to me, but I trust you to keep it safe. I highly recommend the story, “Hearts and Hands.” It’s always been one of my favorites, but it has taken on a particular air of symbolism in recent years, as life has begun to imitate art._

_Your tolerance of my choice of entertainment was admirable; I can only hope you subliminally absorbed the content of the documentary. The truth is out there, after all._

_Until we meet again, remember this – “You have to learn the rules of the game. And then you have to play better than anyone else.”_

_Pax tecum,  
M._

Peter stared at the note, written in Mozzie’s looping scrawl, then read it again. 

_It is priceless to me, but I trust you to keep it safe._

The words hit Peter somewhere unexpected – deep in his heart. He swallowed hard, blinking when his vision momentarily blurred, trying to convince himself it was from the remnants of his fever.

Something occurred to him, and he went back and read the paragraph about the book a third time. 

_…as life has begun to imitate art._

His brow furrowing, Peter put the note aside and read the story Mozzie had bookmarked and mentioned. It was short, only a page and a half, and he made his way through it quickly. By the end, the corners of his mouth had turned up into a captivated smile. Life imitating art, indeed. A story about a handsome criminal and an officer of the law, each briefly pretending to be the other as the marshal did a huge favor for the criminal – all to impress a beautiful young woman.

_It is priceless to me, but I trust you to keep it safe._

Peter’s breath caught in his throat, and his smile shifted to an incredulous gape.

Was Mozzie talking about the book…or Neal? Or both?

His vision blurred again, and he ran a trembling hand over his face.

“You okay, hon?” Elizabeth walked into the living room, carrying a cup of Mozzie’s elderberry tea. After handing it to him, she ran a gentle hand up over his forehead. “You look a little flushed.”

“Hmm? Oh, just tired, I think. Thanks for the tea.” He wasn’t ready to explain it to her just yet. What would he say anyway? _Mozzie said he trusts me, and it affected me more than I thought it would?_ He guessed it was as good an explanation as any, but it could wait until he’d thought through everything with a clear head.

“Well, you’re still really sick. It’ll probably take a week until you’re back to yourself again.” She kissed his forehead, still warm from what was now a low-grade fever. “You need to take it easy for a while. I’m working from home tomorrow, so I’ll be here to take care of you.”

“Best news I’ve heard all day.” _Well, that and the trust thing._

She smiled, then went to the kitchen to get her plate of mandarin chicken salad and glass of wine. She sat down on the sofa in front of his outstretched legs and put her glass on the table. “So, will you tell me what happened today? I’m dying to hear how things went with Moz.”

Peter returned the smile, gazing fondly at her. After a moment, he shook his head. “That can wait. Tell me about the Carter gala.”

She gave him a puzzled look as she chewed a bite of salad. When he nodded encouragingly, she shrugged and started into her story.

He could tell her about his day – and Mozzie’s admission – later. After a day full of ups and downs, relaxing and listening to El’s soothing voice sounded like the most perfect plan in the world. Neal’s bespectacled friend may have written an O. Henry twist into the story of Peter’s day, but the ending belonged to Elizabeth Burke.

 

***


End file.
